Four Strings and a Bow
by Jaelijn
Summary: A collection of drabbles and ficlets for various themes and prompts. Completed posting answers to KCS's prompt-table from LJ. No slash! Please read and review!
1. Murder

_Author's Notes: Here it is! First drabble in a row of prompt fills for the prompt table by KCS over at LJ. Mostly betaed by medcat.  
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**Murder**

After several weeks without so much as a glimpse of a case, Mr Sherlock Holmes was in no sweet temper. For days, he had buried himself in his room with his pipe, no doubt indulging in his vice, much to my dismay. I had attempted to discuss the matter, but he would not have it.

When the screeching of a cab's wheels and the subsequent crash just outside our lodgings jerked me out of a quiet breakfast, Holmes dashed from his room and hurried downstairs.

I followed him slowly. "An accident, surely."

His eyes were gleaming. "Murder, Watson!"


	2. Nightmare

**Nightmare**

When for the third night, Watson awoke to a soft moaning and the restless tossing and turning in the other bedroom, he could stand by no longer. He walked barefooted and drowsily towards the closed door. A terrific outcry halted his hand on the doorknob, until he realised that the dreamer was calling for him.

Holmes had managed to get himself helplessly tangled up in the bedsheets.

"Holmes?"

He calmed at Watson's voice, and sank into a quiet slumber.

Watson stood by the door, musing. Who would have thought that the unmovable Sherlock Holmes was haunted by nightly ghosts?


	3. Grief

**Grief**

He was very silent, in fact, I had never seen him quite so still. I had been fairly shocked when he showed up at my door without announcement, without so much as a phone call. He had never been one for social calls; since his retirement he had developed a loathing for the city that almost equalled his love for it in the early years.

He was without hat or overcoat, dishevelled. His eyes were red-rimmed. He had barely managed a greeting before his voice broke, and for once Sherlock Holmes gave in to the emotional strain. Mycroft had died.


	4. Late Nights

**Late Nights**

The evenings dragged endlessly those damp weeks of autumn when the chill made my old wounds throb. Usually, Sherlock Holmes would keep me company, but he was away on a case.

I was startled out of my weary slumber by the banging of the front door, which heralded his return. I limped to the door, looking down the seventeen steps. "Holmes?"

The hall lay in darkness. Suddenly, there was a bang and a crash, and I hurried for a light. Holmes was on the floor beside a collapsed hat-stand, looking at me sheepishly. "Wasson?"

He was obviously drunk.


	5. Breathe

_Author's Notes: This a continuation of "4. Late Nights"_

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**Breathe**

"What the deuce happened to you?" I exclaimed, climbing downstairs with an effort.

"Tried to get shome informason in the local pub."

"That had to include drinking?"

He looked like a reprimanded child. "Shorry, Wasson. I should have considered you're not feeling well."

In fact, I was surprised how coherent he was. Beside a slight slur, his voice was clean. I doubted I would have realised he was that drunk if not for his encounter with the hat-stand. "Come on, old fellow." I hauled him to his feet. "And don't breathe in my face."


	6. Shoot

_A/N: This one is a 221B, thanks to KCS for creating the genre. BTW, I still haven't created those boys, ACD has. I only own the villains. _

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**Shoot**

I knew I was well out of my depth. I had played my cards, and failed abysmally. True, I had obtained a confession, but it would be of little use to me. Come morning, I would surely be found dead on the riverbank like as many other fools who had the bad luck of crossing paths with Eugene Jones before.

With my own gun in his hands, I would at least be spared the agony of being shot more than once. I had but one bullet left.

He could aim in all consideration, of course. To torture me, he would have to place the bullet in my stomach, but I doubted he would take the chance of my surviving after all, even with me securely bound and gagged.

Jones levelled his gun, clearly enjoying himself. He was simply cruel, a raving maniac, little did he care for the identity of his victims. To him, they were but toys, and if he freed himself of a nuisance in progress, all the better.

I could only find consolation in the thought that Watson was unknown to him and not likely to be his next victim.

Exhausted, I had closed my eyes, but they flashed open as not one, but two shots rang out. One went wild, but the other had been point blank.


	7. Fire

_A/N: During FINA._

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**Fire**

I had expected further assault after I had left Watson's consulting room, but hardly this. Moriarty was determined, but so was I. All evidence was long in the hands of Scotland Yard. The stage was set, there was no backing away, and I had no intention to do so. The net was ready. What Moriarty really wanted was my life, and to wiggle out of the mashes. He would not have it, not without going down with me. No evidence had gone to ash yet. Still, I watched with unease as the fire licked at the windows of Baker Street.


	8. Missing

**Missing**

Three days and two-and-forty minutes since I had last seen him. I had known him to vanish without a trace, but not without as much as an indication as to what he was up to. As far as I could tell, he was not working on a case. As far as I knew, he had intended to go on an afternoon stroll. The Yard was looking for him.

The news of a body found in the Thames gave me the fright of my life. However, it had not been him.

Three days and three-and-forty minutes since Sherlock Holmes was missing.


	9. Darkness

_Author's Notes: Continuation of the last._

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**Darkness**

I was hardly aware that time passed at all. It seemed to have been abolished altogether.

Suspended in darkness as I was, robbed of any stimulant but the searing pain in my bound limbs and my back from being cramped into an uncomfortable position no matter how I would shift my weight, time had lost meaning. It could have been minutes, or it could have been days, I could not rightly say.

In part, I attributed it to the strong alcohol that had been forced down my throat. But clearly it was the darkness that weighted heaviest on my mind.


	10. Light

_Author's Notes: And the conclusion!_

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**Light**

As the constables apprehended the culprits, keeping them away from the informant, I rushed down to the basement.

It was deucedly dark there, but the candle illuminated even the farthest corner.

This was were Sherlock Holmes cowered, the very image of misery. He was bound securely and clearly very sore – they had known how formidable their opponent was.

I hurried to free him while he was still blinking against the light.

"It's me, Watson."

"Yes." His head lolled and he had problems focussing, but at least he was alive.

"Come, I'll get you out of here."


	11. Choke

_A/N: Set during The Illustrious Client._

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**Choke**

It was getting harder to stay conscious. Struggling was futile, and I found myself regretting that I had not taken a cab. But then, the thugs would not have hesitated to waylay me at my very doorstep. Gruner was a determined man, unscrupulous.

The rascal who pressed his stick against my windpipe did not bother to let go as the other rammed his into my stomach. I was chocking, my vision blurring. He must have realised that I was no longer able to struggle, for he let go.

I slid to the ground, the final blow plunging me into darkness.


	12. Helpless

_A/N: ILLU again._

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**Helpless**

I had never felt quite as helpless as in those hours when I sat beside Holmes's bedside after Gruner's thugs had nearly killed him. After all, another surgeon had been there until I finally arrived. Now, I was back, having given a lengthy interview to the press and warning Johnson.

Holmes had been awake, although he had not touched his pipe, a sign that he was indeed feeling rather poorly. He had drifted of to an uneasy sleep now, I believe calmed by my presence. Maybe I was yet of some use, even though I wasn't allowed to avenge him.


	13. Negotiate

**Negotiate**

"You see, Mr Holmes, we can negotiate as equals. You have something I want, and I something you no doubt would rather get back unscathed, am I right?"

"That's not negotiating, that's criminal. Don't do it, Holmes."

"Be quiet!"

"Don't you dare touch him!"

"Holmes, don't!"

"Don't worry, Watson."

"I want you to drop the case, and hand over the files. Without you, the police can do nothing."

"That's fair enough for Watson's life."

"You will do it?"

"I would not turn my back, if I were you." Holmes was an excellent shot.


	14. Blind

_A/N: Another 221B._

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**Blind **

I have often wondered which fate could probably be the cruellest to befall the living. As a former army surgeon, I have seen a good many men blinded by the flash of a gunshot, or by splinters which caused severe damage to their eyes. I trusted they would learn to live with it, as I have with my own injuries, with the aid of their families. I could do nothing to help them.

This, however, was another matter. They had not thought me dangerous enough, but had been cursory with Holmes. When he stumbled for the third time, robbed of his normally excellent eyesight, and received a harsh kick into the ribs for not being fast enough in getting up yet again, my temper got the better of me.

They were utterly surprised by my wiggling out of their slipshod knots, and by the fact that even with a throbbing shoulder I was a formidable opponent.

As they were senseless and bound with the same ropes that had formerly held me, I walked over to Holmes, who had the good sense to crawl away from the scuffle.

It pained me to see him flinch at my footsteps, and I hurried to reassure him that it was only I. He relaxed slightly, and I knelt before him to carefully remove the blindfold.


	15. Haunt

**Haunt**

He did not know what drove him to the cemetery that day, to see a grave no one knew better than himself to be empty. The gravestone was of simple elegance, as he would always prefer it to unnecessary pomp. And yet, it was the dear doctor's distinct touch that made him kneel before what, had he been the ideal reasoner, he would have regarded as a joke. He knew not what prompted him to play an impromptu tune on his violin.

Later, when said doctor came to visit, and the music still lingered, he wondered whether he was haunted.


	16. Embrace

_A/N: Spoilers for EMPT and FINA. But you've all read them, have you :)._

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_**Embrace**

An embrace had always held an air of trust and closeness that he tried to discourage for the simple reason that it was dangerous to be associated with a private consulting detective, let alone that it played havoc with his judgement. Furthermore, it felt childish, even between brothers it was not normally seen in British families with a moderate or higher income. Thus, no soft feelings were to be tolerated.

Still, he had never felt happier than when an embarrassed Watson, for the fear that he would disappear again, embraced him tightly on the evening of his return to London.


	17. Silent

_A/N: Again, FINA + EMPT. Set during the hiatus._

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**Silent**

The first few weeks, he had no time to stop and think. On the hunt, Moran was as formidable an antagonist as his late master; he would not relinquish his prey.

After he had finally eluded the _shikari_, the damage was done. Every newspaper in Europe rang with the news of his demise. He convinced himself that it was for the best; from now on, he would hunt unseen.

And still, as he sat on a the doorstep of an empty house in Italy, shivering from cold and exhaustion, he tried desperately to escape the silence of loneliness by humming.


	18. Work

_A/N: More hiatus for you._

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**Work**

The saying that work was the best antidote to sorrow was simply erroneous. For hours, days, perhaps, work busied his mind sufficiently to escape. He had to be on his guard always, never to let the façade slip, and he was never alone. The continental police stayed in close touch with their cases.

And still, the conclusion of yet another mystery left him alone once again in an indifferent hotel room he'd never call home, contemplating what-ifs. And more than once, those black moods drove him to his sole companions, a cheap syringe and the cocaine bottle. He missed Watson.


	19. Rescue

_A/N: This one wouldn't come to an end. So it turned into a one-shot. Warning for drug use and dramatically changing POVs._

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**19. Rescue**

It had always been a means to escape the ennui, the commonplace, the tiring routine of everyday life. Nothing more. Maybe it was a vice, but after all, he only used it when everything else failed.

He had not meant to overdose, certainly not. Suicide was far from his mind. He wanted to say so, but his voice failed him. The room whirled around at galling speed, and his chest felt uncomfortably tight. Someone pinned his arms down, forcefully, and he knew he was getting bound, a process against which his instincts told him to struggle. His brain was too muddled to remember that they were trying to help him. He fought against the bonds until the tension in his chest became too strong to bear, and a scream was torn from his lips. Black spots danced before his vision, and he seemed to fall, water rushing in his ears.

"Holmes!" The voice was too low, too far away... He was about to be consumed by darkness, and beyond caring. The darkness would stop the pain that was not connected to the drug.

Someone slapped his face. "Don't you dare! Don't you dare! I will not let you die! Not even if you wish to..."

But he did not! By heaven he did not!

"Stay awake!"

It was so confounded hard – he had his eyes open, but it was still so dark, the voice so feeble, so far away. Why fight it? He did not wish to return to the loneliness and jealousy, empty rooms and empty chairs.

"Holmes?!"

The voice was getting on his nerves. Why on earth was he hearing Watson now when he knew all too well that Watson was not, could not be there? No longer by _his _side.

Someone pressed applied pressure on his chest until he howled in pain. Suddenly, the black haze was lifted.

He was no longer in Baker Street. An unknown room, an unknown ceiling, but clearly a hospital – oh, how he loathed them. He had not been mistaken, he was restrained, as strongly as humanity would allow. Curtains were drawn around him. He was alone. Again.

He felt sick. He had never cared for the opinion others had of him, but he hated to think of the gossip. They would assume he had done this deliberately, when in fact the solution had been tampered with, must have been tampered with, though he could not for the life of him fathom why he had failed to notice any signs. He wished desperately to be home, where no one was there to watch his misery, but he was too exhausted to cry out.

Maybe he had indeed heard someone upstairs, in the all-too-empty room, back then...

"You are awake!" Heavens, suddenly the voice was loud, clear. Real.

* * *

I felt a flash of compassion when Holmes turned his head to look at me. His eyes were bloodshot, pain-hazed. It was no wonder after the ordeal he had brought upon himself. Thankfully, he had snapped out of it before I had to think of more drastic measures. "Feeling better?" I asked after I had allowed him to take several sips from a glass of water.

"You are here?"

I sighed. "I've been here all the time, Holmes. And I always shall be, marriage or no. It's only that I have to take care of Mary, too. That's the reason, is it not?"

"Reason?"

"You have tried to kill yourself, of course."

"Watson." For a moment, I could see into his heart, and he seemed so lost, so vulnerable. "I did not attempt to kill myself."

"Then someone tried to do it for you." One may think me stupid, easily convinced, but I knew with absolute certainty that Holmes was convinced of what he said. "It was a close call. You must be careful in the future, my friend."

His voice was but a whisper, so lonely and lost. "So we are still?"

"Friends? I shall always be you friend."

"Will you visit?"

"As often as I can."

"And record the cases."

"With the greatest delight."

* * *

With that knowledge, he supposed he could let Watson go back to his wife. And when he was in dire need of a companion some months afterwards, Watson was true to his word and did not hesitate to face the Napoleon of crime with him.


	20. Die

_A/N: No character death. Set during FINA. _

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**Die**

He had contemplated death often during their journey. He felt it in his bones that Moriarty would not rest until he was dead. He had expected the possibility. And for the sake of the public, he was more than prepared to accept it, not to speak of Mycroft, or Watson. When the doctor steadfastly refused to leave him, he was filled with dread. It was _his_ work, and he could not deprive a wife of her husband at the same time in the vain attempt to secure his continuing survival. If he was to die, he would not take Watson with him.


	21. Memory

_A/N: Spoilers for FINA and EMPT. Can you tell I am obsessed with those two stories?_

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**Memory**

Sometimes, on sleepless nights, the memory would return. Sometimes, the crackling of the fire was drowning in the roar of the Falls, he would hear again Moriarty's cold threats, yet again run from a cab, ruffians... Yet again struggle on the edge above the Falls when his foot had threatened to slip, on the climb, as the handhold would not support his weight... Then he would pick up the violin and play, until he was too tired in body and mind to remember. He did not know that he was not the only one lulled to sleep by the music.


	22. War

**War**

Even as I joined the army, I despised it. If not for the lack of money, I would never have considered it. I was a doctor, vowed to do no harm, finding myself in a battle for survival; a single pool of blood that left nobody unscathed. Upon my return, I was an older man than could be measured in years, marked by war.

And then I met this individual, this singular, unworldly student with eccentric interests. I considered him young, younger than the years that separated us, until I learned that he, too, fought a war, for justice alone.


	23. Faint

**Faint**

Neither of the two tended to faint easily. The doctor had seen too much blood as a soldier, and Holmes too many deaths in his line of work, even before Watson knew what his line of work was. Thus, it came to Watson's utter surprise and shock when one day Holmes returned to their sitting room only to drop down in a dead faint, unresponsive and unmoving; the white shirt under his overcoat soaked in blood from the ragged wound Watson discovered in his friend's abdomen where the knife still remained, and he searched frantically for a faint pulse.


	24. Trapped

_A/N: Possible spoilers for LADY and the respective Granada episode, but only if you know them anyway, so... _

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_**Trapped**

There was no way out. For all his knowledge of London, he had allowed them to lure him into a dead end, trapped between the wall and the enemy, alone, without a weapon.

He lived, but that did not change the situation; he was still trapped, caged in a tight space, plunged into blackness. The velvet beneath his touch allowed only one possible conclusion. A coffin.

The smell of chloroform still lingered, making him dizzy. There was no way out. He gave in to the tears of despair until, through the haze of the dream, he heard a familiar voice calling.


	25. Stab

_A/N: Part one of two. Warning for violence.  
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_**Stab**

The pain was hot and searing, burning away reason and sense, leaving nothing but itself. The world started spinning, spiralling downwards, or maybe it was just him, falling, deeper and deeper, as if there was no ground beneath. When the impact finally came, it felt as if he had been stabbed over again. Black dots danced in his blurry vision, his breath was knocked out of him, he was fighting back nausea, knowing that it was a fight already lost.

He did not know where he found the strength to point the gun at his opponent and pull the trigger.


	26. Blood

_A/N: Continuation of the last._

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_**Blood**

The blood was gathering to a pool around them, his own crimson red mixing with the darker of the criminal. He was dead, had been in a matter of seconds, and I could not bring myself to care. He had played with Holmes, cornered him with his dagger, giving him no time to draw the weapon, until he had been sure of his victory.

I staggered towards them, dropping to my knees beside Holmes, into a pool of warm blood. Too much blood.

He was still breathing. "Holmes, fight it. Don't leave me."

His eyelids flickered open. "Trying."


	27. Fight

**Fight**

"Fight it, do you hear? Stay awake." He could not focus on my face, and was struggling to speak. "Don't talk."

To my horror, his eyes filled with moisture and overflowed. He was trying to say his goodbyes. He grasped my sleeve with failing strength. "Get help."

"I cannot leave you!"

"If you do not leave, I'll die."

"I know..." I could do nothing but try to stem the bleeding, but it was not enough, and I did not know what else to do... I pressed his hand on the cloth. "Stay awake."


	28. Effort

**Effort**

I have often commented on the mercurial nature of my friend Sherlock Holmes, which sorely tried the patience of both our landlady and myself, but sometimes I believed he was the chief victim of his exploits.

After a strenuous week, I found myself sitting idly in front of our fire. Holmes had gone out to report to the Yard, but he walked into the sitting room now, falling into his chair without so much as taking off his hat.

"Holmes?"

He glanced at me from under drooping lids. "Hm?"

"Permit yourself some rest and go to bed."


	29. Exhaustion

_A/N: A 221B._

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_**Exhaustion**

I had been out all morning; an urgent call from a patient which kept me from Baker Street.

I knew that Holmes had nothing to do at the moment, having just concluded a complicated case where all the official forces had failed. He had been in the most brilliant mood in the evening, which I suspected to last for a few days at least.

However, Mrs Hudson greeted me with a worried expression. "It's Mr Holmes, Doctor. I don't like the look of him."

"I trust he has eaten?"

"Oh, yes, but that's about it. I have neither seen nor heard him since."

I knew that the blinds of the sitting room had been drawn, but I had thought nothing of it before. "I will go up."

I turned up the gas, flooding the room with warm light that the winter sun lacked.

Holmes lay on the sofa, unmoving, his chest lifting slowly with each breath, but his eyes remained stubbornly shut.

"Holmes?" I hurried to his side, grasping his shoulder, assuming him to be ill, or worse, but he merely groaned and pushed my hand away. "Oh, Watson, do leave me alone. I'm exhausted."

"You were sleeping!"

"Of course. What were you thinking?"

"Don't you think you'd better rest in bed?"


	30. Limp

**Limp**

"Holmes. Holmes!"

He stopped in his track, noticing that I was no longer beside him. Slowly, he turned around to where I had sunk down upon a bolder, and quickened his step to return to my side. "Watson? Are you fine?"

I wiped the sweat from my face with my handkerchief, blushing. "I'm sorry, my dear fellow, but I fear your pace is rather too brisk for me." To my surprise, a look of embarrassment came to his face.

"I should have noticed. Come." He pulled me up, and, offering his arm, fell in pace with mine.


	31. Struggle

_A/N: Part one of two._

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_**Struggle**

Clearly, it was futile. Our captors were sailors, experts in the art of tying knots that were hard to open and all the tighter the more one tugged at them. I only wished for the gag to be gone to talk to Holmes, who was bound to the second chair, his back against mine. He had not said a word nor budged at all after the criminals had ended his struggle. I did not know how he was faring, despite the obvious fact that the room was filling with water, certainly drowning us. Unless his message reached Lestrade in time.


	32. Stranded

_A/N: Part two of two._

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_**Stranded**

I brushed my fingertips against his bound hands, but there was no reaction.

With an effort, I cast the gag from my mouth just as the water swashed into my boots. It had reached the small island we were on.

"Holmes?"

Soon, even this elevated portion of ground would be underwater, and soon, so would we.

"Holmes!"

"Watson? What happened?"

They had knocked him unconscious, then. "Never mind. There's a scalpel in my left hand trousers pocket. See if you can reach it."

A bolder seemed to fall of my chest as he exclaimed in joy.


	33. Promise

**Promise**

"Holmes?"

"Hm?"

"Have you ever made a promise to someone that was very important? You know, a promise for a lifetime?"

"Are you planning on proposing, Watson?"

"No, it's not that."

"Whyever are you asking, then?"

"Because I have, and I am not sure whether it was justified."

"What is it?"

"I asked first."

"Very well." Holmes exhaled a smoke cloud towards the ceiling. "I promised myself never to let my judgement be biased by any personal affections. But I am glad to have made an exception, Watson."


	34. Fear

_A/N: Spoilers for FINA._

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_**Fear**

At first glance, Holmes seemed to fear nothing. Even in the days of the constant persecution by Professor Moriarty, he hardly showed any signs of fear. He was not oblivious to danger, he merely choose to control his emotions.

Therefore, it came as quite a shock to me when on holiday on the continent, after we had only just concluded a complicated case, our local guide suggested that we visited the nearby waterfall and Holmes blanched in a matter of seconds, shacking so badly that I caught his arm in concern.

"Watson, do you have any objection to avoiding waterfalls?"


	35. Swim

_A/N: Sherlock is probably seven here._

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_**Swim**

"Mycroft! What are you doing! Let me down!"

"No. I have had enough. It seems you intend to do everything to annoy me. It has to stop." My exacerbating younger sibling had stopped struggling, but my grip remained vice-like.

"I am bored!"

"You should have brought a book."

I dragged him along, and did not hesitate upon our arrival. He was utterly startled.

I smiled at his yelp as he splashed into the water, but became cold with dread at his next words before he slipped under the surface:

"You are forgetting I can't swim!"


	36. Danger

_A/N: Set during SPECK._

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_**Danger**

After seeing the bell-pull that did not ring, the bed that was clamped to the floor, the chair and the tied dog leash, there had been no doubt in his mind as to how the murder had been committed. But the safe remained invariably closed, and there was no proof any court would accept.

Therefore, he had to see with his own eyes, confirm his deductions and turn theory into fact. Truth be told, he was more than grateful that he would not face this death-trap of a room alone. But he could not allow Watson to walk into the danger unawares.


	37. Cemetery

_A/N: After FINA... and another 221B.  
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_**Cemetery**

The cemetery was very quiet at that time of day, as it was appreciated by all attenders of the funeral. It was not raining – one always believed it should be raining at funerals – but it was icy cold, and the preacher delivered his speech with clattering teeth.

Not that anyone was listening.

Mycroft Holmes, who knew well that his hand was resting on the lid of an empty coffin while its intended occupant was wandering around in Europe, wondered how many of his little brother's mischiefs his conscience could yet bear.

Mrs Hudson found consolation in the fact that due to the generous payments of the elder brother, the memory of the younger would not blemish, and she would not be forced to sort her late tenant's things. She doubted she would have the heart to remove anything, even the jackknife in the mantelpiece. She had never cried over a pipe before.

To Watson, every sound had taken on the tune of the foaming death called the Reichenbach Falls. Last words haunted him, and he was hearing an all too familiar voice, although he had never heard him speak the words.

_I remain, my dear fellow, very sincerely yours, Sherlock Holmes_

Many miles away, Sherlock Holmes moved on after another sleepless night, hoping that he'd decided for the best.


	38. Honour

**Honour**

Holmes was certainly a self-confident man, with a peculiar sense of honour.

The humblest praise of friends or Scotland Yard inspectors moved him deeply, and yet as a letter from the royal family arrived, he sat it on fire with a match and watched it crumble to ashes.

"What is it, Holmes? Something to do with the case?"

He gave a mirthless chuckle. "They offer me knighthood."

"And you burned the letter!"

"I will not accept, Watson. What do I care about a 'sir'? It is of no use to my work, therefore, it is unnecessary."


	39. Love

**Love**

Sherlock Holmes frequently stated that he had never loved, and yet he was firmly convinced that it was destructive to the abilities with which he was endowed. Now, Holmes never made unfounded assumptions, and I sensed a personal experience behind his distrust for the fair sex, but he would not mention it.

It was not until he was bedridden with a terrible case of exhaustion that I chanced upon opening his chest of drawers in search of a pillow and discovered two modest matrimonial rings secured to a scarlet ribbon. After that, Holmes would not speak to me for days.

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_A/N: Dear reader, think of it what thou wilt. ;-) There are various ways of understanding this one._


	40. Cold

**Cold**

"Has Holmes returned yet, Mrs Hudson? He invited me for tea – I hope it is all right?"

"Oh, of course, Doctor! We are always delighted to have you here. He's not back yet, but go right up. Tea will be ready presently."

I sat by the fire, waiting over an hour for Holmes's return.

When he finally arrived, he fairly fell out of the cab and the driver had to jump down to help him to his feet.

I met them at the door; Holmes's teeth were clattering. "Watson, would you mind making a house call?"


	41. Time

_A/N: During the hiatus. Again._

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**Time**

They say that time heals every wound. I could not agree. For three years, my life had just stopped. I had ceased to exist, escaping the danger that life presented for myself and those around me.

I had thought of the wounds I'd inflicted, but after all, time would heal; maybe, for Watson, it was true, or so I hoped.

But such phrases never served to ease my conscience when I found myself burning yet another unfinished letter for the knowledge of what would happen to anyone who was found in my company should my pursuers catch up with me.


	42. Suffer

_A/N: After HOUND._

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* * *

_**Suffer**

Watson awoke to the sound of pacing in the sitting room. He knew it to be Holmes, and usually, he would not have minded.

However, since their experience on Dartmoor, sleep came rarely, even without foreign interruptions. It had to stop, and it had to stop now.

Watson stepped into his slippers, yawning, and only too ready to reprimand Holmes for his utter disregard for human needs.

Yet, when he lay eyes on Holmes, who was by now slumped in his armchair, rubbing the bridge of his nose, he assumed that he was not the only one suffering from nightmares.


	43. Beat

_A/N: During DYIN. Possibly AU, but then, we never knew what exactly happened during the hours Holmes locked Watson in with him.  


* * *

_**Beat**

It was slow, but steady. He could not help checking, even though Holmes had explicitly told him to stay away. Watson wouldn't be a doctor if he caught illnesses easily, even if they were exotic. Holmes was asleep now, he would never know.

Surprisingly enough, Holmes's skin was cool, but then, Watson knew nothing about this fever, and the delirium was obvious enough, even if he disregarded all other factors of sickness.

He did not understand why Holmes would want him to stay without being allowed to help, but at least the steady beat of the pulse was some comfort.


	44. Cripple

_A/N: First glimpse into my retirement-universe, based on the introduction by Watson to the HLB-collection. More will come._

_

* * *

_**Cripple**

When Watson informed him that stiffness in the joints at morning, lack of appetite and the strangle inclination to fall asleep in the most inopportune moments were definite symptoms of arthritis, he smiled and jested at old age.

When he winced at Mycroft's forceful handshake as brother dearest first visited him in Sussex, he explained it away with some impromptu tale of a bee that had stung him, which amused Mycroft greatly, but was an outright lie.

However, when he discovered one chilly morning that he was quite unable to play his violin, he desperately wished for Watson's consoling presence.


	45. Evil

**Evil**

"Watson!"

I started out of my chair, and rushed into the hallway. "Holmes?"

He was downstairs, frantically locking the door on the inside.

"What are you doing?"

He bounded up the stairs. "Trying to safe us from the wrath of Jupiter."

"What did you do to Mycroft?"

"Nothing, that's just it."

"I don't understand."

"I declined a case of a Member of Parliament. A child could have solved it."

"Surely not!"

"There he is. I'm not at home."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Watson! Angry Mycroft is the evil incarnate!"


	46. Battle

**Battle**

Reading the reports in the papers, if he could afford one, left him indifferent as to a war far away. He had more pressing concerns, and in Montague Street, papers were best implied to feed a fire.

Years later, when he was about to leave Baker Street for the last of cases, he wondered what would happen to his soldier in this battle against crime with only one outcome.

Three years later, he was overjoyed that the numbers of Maiwand had not included the one man who'd survived not only war, but also the foolishness of one private consulting detective.


	47. Chivalry

**Chivalry**

It had been Mycroft's strong wish that he attended the dance, and wishes down from Olympus were best obeyed, if one did not want to draw the wrath of Jupiter upon himself.

Thus, he'd reluctantly agreed, even though he despised social gatherings with all his heart. Mycroft sent him away with the order to 'behave himself'.

Watson was overjoyed when he asked whether he would accompany him, and wondered why Holmes looked so morosely. After all, his chivalrous trait suited him well, and he would hardly be the centre of attention. Only later did it occur to him that he had hit upon the heart of the problem.


	48. Drag

_A/N: Retirement again, first one was _"#44 Cripple". _And a 221B._

* * *

**Drag**

He dragged himself up the stairs to the attic, tired, bruised and with the single wish to be alone. The housekeeper had long relinquished the key to him.

Had she been as long-suffering as Mrs Hudson... But the fact remained, she was not, and in all probability only stayed because he, too, was slowing down.

He locked the door behind him and fell into a chair, taking the weight off his swollen ankle. It was sprained, most likely, due to his own clumsiness. He had never before dripped on the slippery pathway to the hives.

However, there was no way around it – he was losing his faculty to walk even short distances. The stiffness in his joints lasted long after the damp morning hours had passed, and if it had not been for the flare of pain, he surely would not have fallen.

With a sigh, he looked over to the chemistry set, but he could not bring himself to rise. If this continued, he would soon be dragging himself around on his hands and knees, or, worse still, needing a wheelchair – the pain in the hands was worst, he would depend entirely upon someone to push him... It was not a pleasant prospect at all.

He wondered wearily whether Watson would consider coming down if he asked bluntly.

* * *

_A/N: Cookies for anyone who spots the alliteration._


	49. Fall

_A/N: More or less a continuation of the last. Continuation of the retirement-ark (#44, #48)_. _And a 221B._

* * *

**Fall**

He had intended it to be a surprise visit. Holmes was always reluctant to ask him to come, although Watson knew well that he had no other visitors, and the loneliness was too much for him, producing black moods even in his retirement.

Sussex was a rest for the doctor also, with the added pleasure of seeing his old friend again.

When the housekeeper informed him that 'the man' had locked himself up in the attic room, Watson climbed the stairs with an old and all-too-familiar feeling of dread.

There was no answer to his knock.

"Holmes? It's me, Watson. Unlock the door, old fellow."

After a moment of silence, the key scraped in the lock and the door creaked open a fraction.

"Watson?"

"Yes. I have come down from London just now. How are the bees?"

"The bees are well." Holmes allowed him to enter, but it was only after he'd made sure that the door was locked that he allowed himself a grimace of pain and rested his forehead against the cold wood.

Watson was at his side in an instant. "I say, are you well?"

Holmes waved his concern aside and limped over to the window to drop back into the chair he had just risen from.

Watson followed him, and lowered his voice to a gentler tone. "Since when are you using a wheelchair?"

"I'm not."

"The ankle should have mended by now, your fall was not that bad."

"It's not the ankle."

"What then? I know you use the chair – there are calluses on your hands that were not there before. Why?"

Holmes smiled. "You are finally using your own deductive abilities. I assume I should be proud, eh?"

"Why, Holmes? As your doctor and your friend, pray, tell me."

"Because, my dear Watson, rheumatism simply doesn't get better."


	50. Hide

_A/N: Spoilers for FINA and EMPT._

_

* * *

_**Hide**

He had never liked the game of hide and seek. One could say that the deductive faculties in his family ruined the game – Mycroft was extremely lazy, but he could find him easily. Instead, they had developed their own game of discovering where the other had been instead of where he was.

Cowering on the ledge above the Falls, however, he wished desperately that he could manage to hide just so that Watson could divine what had happened to him without revealing himself.

But the wrong conclusions were drawn, and it took three years to finally trap the hunter.


	51. Loss

_A/N: After FINA._

_

* * *

_**Loss**

"It is a pity, Mr Holmes." Inspector Lestrade offered his hand awkwardly. "My condolences for your loss, sir, and from the rest of the Yard, too. Your brother certainly was unique, and a great pleasure working with him, too."

"Thank you, inspector." Mycroft returned the handshake, reinforcing the iron control over his features. What he endured for his 'unique' sibling! But one must not speak ill of the dead.

All the while, he had been watching the silent figure that was not staring at the coffin, but at a crumbled sheet of paper. Watson did not know.


	52. Shiver

**Shiver**

There are certain signs which herald both being cold and sickness, even before the actual symptoms begin. To a trained observer, they are just as obvious.

When I see a man sitting on the hearthrug before the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket, hands closed around a cup of tea, and yet still shivering, I know what will come.

"Do you want me to ask Mrs Hudson for another cup of tea?"

"No, I'm fine, Holmes. It's this damn weather."

"Then lie down on the sofa and let me see if I can put you to sleep, old fellow."


	53. Support

_A/N: During PRIO: "As we approached the forbidding and squalid inn, with the sign of a game-cock above the door, Holmes gave a sudden groan, and clutched me by the shoulder to save himself from falling. He had had one of those violent strains of the ankle which leave a man helpless."_

_

* * *

_**Support**

The yelp of pain came as quite a surprise, and I actually started when Holmes grasped my arm to prevent himself from falling, which nearly send us both tumbling to the ground.

"My dear fellow, what is the matter?"

We had steadied ourself, but Holmes was still ridiculously balancing on one leg, seemingly unable to put his foot down.

"This is one of the dangers of detective work that Mycroft avoids with his armchair-deductions. I believe I have sprained my ankle. I shall have to ask the landlord for his bicycle."

He smiled as realisation brightened my face.


	54. Lift

**Lift**

I, too had my pride, probably as much as my fellow lodger, even though I strive not to slip to arrogance as he does on occasion.

However, beggars cannot be choosers, and one has to swallow one's pride when the circumstances demand it. It is not pleasant to ask for help in simple matters such as these, and I feared harsh ridiculing on Holmes's part when I ventured to ask him.

But to my surprise, he simply lifted the dispatch box up onto the cupboard without so much as a wink. "It's of no matter, Doctor. You are convalescing."


	55. Weak

_A/N: Not sure how one would call this. It's not a drabble, nor is it a 221B. Enjoy anyway!_

_

* * *

_**Weak**

"Holmes?"

"Hm?"

To my relief, he stirred and opened his eyes. His face was ghastly pale, aside from the pitch-black circles below his eyes, which had apparently sunk even deeper into their holes. In the darkened room, the pale orbs where barely visible, and yet I perceived that their usual sharpness had changed into a sick, glassy look.

"Really, Holmes, this cannot continue. You must permit yourself some food."

"If you have come to lecture me, I must ask you to leave."

"Very well, I will demonstrate." I pinned his arm down on the sofa as harshly as I dared.

His eyes flickered open in surprise. "What are you doing?"

"Demonstrating."

"Nonsense. Let go."

I would not, and soon he tried to free himself, but the lack of nourishment had not only sent him into a faint right after he had finished explaining the case to Hopkins, it had also sapped his strength.

When he found that he could not get free, I watched a frightening change in the depth of his eyes, and if I had not known him better, I would have called it panic.

"Watson! Let go!"

"I will, but you must understand that this is dangerous. Where I a criminal, and this the middle of a case, your life would not be worth a penny. This is not in your interest, is it?"

He smiled weakly. "Most certainly not. I promise it will not happen."

"Very well, I'll see to that." I released him, and he sank back against the backrest of the sofa, his eyes already flickering close again.

"Stay where you are. I'll get you some soup."

* * *

_A/N: NORW: "(...)I have known him to presume upon his iron strength until he has fainted from pure inanition."_


	56. Grasp

**Grasp**

"Hold on! For heaven's sake!"

I had been just seconds too late. A fraction of a second earlier, and I would have caught up with the criminal before Holmes tumbled over the cliff with him.

By now, Ryan was surely dead, smashed at the bottom of the cliff. He had fallen without a sound, contrasting sharply with Holmes's surprised yelp.

"Watson?!" Holmes actually sounded as terrified as I felt.

He was just below where I lay prone on the edge, just out of reach, hanging on to the slippery rock for his very life.

"Grasp my jacket!"


	57. Terror

_A/N: Spoilers for DEVI._

_

* * *

_**Terror**

Although I have been acquainted with Holmes for a very long time, I have never seen such an expression of terror on his face as after the experiment with the _Radix Pedis Diaboli_. The poison had stirred my innermost fears without allowing me to pinpoint them, and I assumed that Holmes had felt the same, although he would not speak of it. But after all, undirected fear was indeed a rather pointless subject.

Two days afterwards, however, I woke to find him standing by the side of my bed in the middle of the night. "Just checking," he said.


	58. Mercy

**Mercy**

We had been warned, one would think, by all the deeds we had been investigating. None of the victims had died quickly, and London had hardly seen a more cruel chain of murders. But of course that was all the more reason for Holmes to become involved. He despised cruelty without reason.

They worked with a drug, that much was clear, but which drug, neither of us had known. Now we did.

I had not been able to stop him; all my arguments had been in vain. The criminal was apprehended, but Holmes was not satisfied. He had to know every detail.

To see him now, writhing on the hearthrug because of the drug he himself had inflicted, and between sobs and screams begging for mercy, was more than I could bear.

I could do naught to help him, there was no antidote, it simply would have to wear off on its own.

Holmes later told me that it felt as if his organs were on fire, but it was the mental part, the reduction of a great man to a whimpering child, that caused the most pain to me.


	59. Crawl

**Crawl**

I crawled over to the spot where my fallen friend lay, ignoring the searing pain radiating from my left leg and the racket of gunshots behind me, where the police was storming the building.

The criminal would have gotten away had we not engaged in a weaponless brawl with him.

Unfortunately, he had not been entirely weaponless. I should have considered that he would use his whip to his advantage, but I noticed it only too late.

He had saved my life, and stopped our man, but the cost was hardly worth it. He had the bruise to show it. Dear Watson.


	60. Plead

_A/N: Remember the drug Holmes injected himself with in "Mercy"? Well, this is the prelude to that ficlet. _

_

* * *

_**Plead**

"Holmes, don't do it. Holmes. It is my strongest advice to stop, both as a friend and a medical man. It's madness – what can you possibly hope to achieve? You don't know what it will do to you. For all we know, it could even be lethal."

"It was not the cause of death, Watson."

"Maybe because the victims were killed before that! Lay down that syringe! Really, there has to be a limit to curiosity."

"I am not curious. This could be crucial in future cases. Would you rather...?"

"Heavens, no!"

"See?"


	61. Crack

_A/N: A 221B, this one._

_

* * *

_

**Crack**

"Oh, curse it!"

Mrs Hudson nearly dropped my hat as the sharp cry from above resounded on the walls of the hallway. "Oh, Doctor..."

"Experimenting again, is he?" I sighed. "Very well, Mrs Hudson, I'll see what he is doing."

"I'm having guests for tea – maybe you could take him on a nice stroll?"

"I'll ask him."

I pushed open the door to the sitting room without knocking, but to my surprise, Holmes was not there, and the Bunsen burner was off. "Holmes?"

"Over here."

I found him in his own room, bathing his hand in a bowl of water which was turning red.

"What did you do?" I asked, horrified at the amount of blood. "Let me see."

He held out his hand for inspection. It was covered with acid burns and cuts from a glass phial.

"I did nothing. It was this confounded phial. You'll find it's remains in the waste basket. I noticed the crack only as it was too late."

"You poured acid over your hand!"

"The phial cracked as I held it!"

"And tried to wash it off with water?!"

"I neutralized it first, of course. Really, Watson." He carefully probed the injured area, grimacing.

"I'll get the bandages."


	62. Drug

**Drug**

It felt like drowning.

He would never admit it to anyone, but in those periods that Watson had dubbed "black moods", when he could hardly stir from his bed, or the sofa, if he made it as far, he felt like he was constantly sinking, not in water, but in crushing blackness, where his thoughts were running in circles, purposeless, aimless.

The drug was a relief. It was a buoy. It kept him afloat above the blackness, for the short time it worked, until he would start sinking again.

The drug was temporary. Cases were the only rescue worthwhile.


	63. Flutter

_A/N: Another retirement-story (#44, #48, #49)._

_

* * *

_**Flutter**

Watson watched carefully, noticing the signs.

He had not done what Holmes had asked him to do, had not woken him as he fell asleep; giving his body what he desperately needed. The man's health was declining rapidly these days.

The cold brought the pain, and it did not allow him to eat much, nor did he get the rest he needed, even though he would hardly stir from his settee, if he left his bed at all. They had tried the wheelchair, but it was too tiresome for Holmes's aching hands.

His eyelids fluttered; he would be awake soon.


	64. Suspicious

**Suspicious**

"Did you notice her, Watson?"

"Whom?"

Holmes beckoned me to the window. "Over there, in front of Camden House, where the window is broken."

"Yes, I see her. Well, she doesn't look extraordinary to me. I'd say, that dress _is_ truly remarkable."

Holmes chuckled. "Indeed. Watson, this is the lady who, several years ago, after killing her husband and children, had the nerve of levelling a gun at the head of the only witness, myself, telling me to 'get the hell out of her way'. I wonder when she will have the courage to ring."


	65. Clench

**Clench**

During my associating with Sherlock Holmes, I had come across all sorts of anger and rage, sometimes directed at us, especially Holmes.

He had never once lost his temper, not even as Roylott had twisted our steelpoker to knots. But I knew the symptoms: the flush, the clenched fists, the stiffness in posture.

I freely admit that the rage that rolled of Holmes now was frightening, and I was glad that I was not at the receiving end.

"How dare you suggest that, Mycroft?! How dare you!"

"Holmes, please..."

"Be quiet, Watson! It was _not_ your fault!"


	66. Relief

_A/N: During DEVI._

_

* * *

_**Relief**

"Holmes? Holmes!" He did not respond to my calls, his gaze empty, going right through me.

I slapped him in the face, trying to bring him back to his senses where anything else failed. I should never have allowed the experiment, but he had seemed fine, even afterwards.

Until he'd collapsed where he stood, writhing with cramps and screaming. I feared for his sanity, feared that he would share the fate of the Tregennis brothers.

His head fell to the side, his body limp. Suddenly, his hand closed around mine.

"Watson?"

"Thank heavens, you are all right."

* * *

_A/N: DEVI: "At the same moment, in some effort of escape, I broke through that cloud of despair and had a glimpse of Holmes's face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror–the very look which I had seen upon the features of the dead."_


	67. Twist

_A/N: Holmes's POV. This is a tiny glimpse at the second of my full length stories which will eventually be posted here._

_

* * *

_

**Twist**

I struggled against the bounds which held me, mindful of what was yet to come. Or had it happened already?

I could not rightly say. My mind was too muddled by pain, my train of thought so confusing that I lost my grip on reality. I did not know whether the water around me, the slowly rising tide, was real, or whether it was the grip of my enemy, pinning me down on the wet sand, causing pain, death and despair.

I fought against the iron shackles tearing on my flesh and screamed as he grasped my ankle and twisted.


	68. Sink

_A/N: Another glimpse. More or less a continuation of the last._

_

* * *

_**Sink**

The weight of his clothes dragged him down mercilessly, the fact that his ankle would not support his weight let alone withstand the current did not help matters.

Somewhere, deep down in his mind, a voice screamed at him, the voice of reason, telling him that no one knew where he was, no one would rescue him, the tide would not stop.

He would die, rather sooner than later, all the quicker if he simply let himself slide down, slip below the surface, into the dark water. Die he would, anyhow.

He barely felt the hand that pulled him upright.


	69. Failure

**Failure**

The expression on Holmes's face was heart-wrenching. With the dead body of the client he'd sought to protect lying before us, it seemed like the ground had been swept from under him.

The adrenalin gone, he swayed and would have fallen, had I not leapt to catch him. "Come, Holmes. There's nothing we can do. We must report to Scotland Yard."

"If we had been here just five minutes earlier..."

"You did your best."

"Not enough, Watson."

This time, as he sought refuge in the cocaine, I was at a loss for arguments to stop him.


	70. Bitter

**Bitter**

_He had noticed the taste; sleeping draft was by no means tasteless, and the bitterness still lingered on his tongue, but now it was too late. The glass slipped from his hand, and suddenly the room was spinning._

_Watson leapt to catch him, but he felt betrayed, and tried to push him away. _

_Mycroft's face hovered above him – he tried to stay awake, alert, tried to crawl away from the two people he had trusted, and who had betrayed him... _

_He was not crazy, he wasn't, the case..._

Sherlock Holmes awoke with a strangled scream, drenched in cold sweat.


	71. Stop

**Stop**

It wasn't a process.

Watson had told him so often, so frequently, that he was destroying himself, his mind, his powers. At first, it was not a notion he could consider, and in those years of Watson's marriage and the hiatus, cocaine was a necessity.

Without Watson to make him feel guilty, and to distract him from the ennui...

It was in the joy and the spur of the moment that, upon his return to London, he decided to stop. With Watson once again by his side, and hoping he would forever be there, he was prepared to face anything.


	72. Crisis

_A/N: First of a mini-storyark._

_

* * *

_**Crisis**

When Mrs Hudson heard Sherlock Holmes dashing from the house into the pouring rain without hat or umbrella, she sighed and hurried after him with both articles, only to find him standing frozen just a few paces from the door.

"Your hat, Mr Holmes, and take the umbrella. You will be soaked to the skin."

He smiled thinly. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"How long will you be?"

"I don't know." When he looked up, she knew she was witness to a time of crisis. "Tell him, I'm sorry."

Were there tears in her lodger's eyes?


	73. Shame

_A/N: continuation of the last._

_

* * *

_**Shame**

My face was still feeling hot, but I knew that it was no longer a flush of anger, but of shame.

After all those years of our acquaintance, in one spur of the moment, I had likely ruined it all. After all, I should have known how to deal with Holmes by now, that I mustn't take his bickering seriously – oh, I did! How I did!

I had been the one person he had allowed a glimpse of his heart. In a flare of anger, over a trifle, I had mercilessly used it against him. I had hurt him.


	74. Pain

_A/N: continuation of the last._

_

* * *

_**Pain**

I collapsed against the door, scarcely finding the strength to knock. In my flight, I had left everything behind, including my keys.

I assumed the burglars that attacked me had been quite disappointed when they found no wallet. They had taken my watch instead, a gift. Watson's gift.

Mrs Hudson shrieked when I collapsed into her arms, but I was beyond caring. White, hot pain engulfed me, dragged me under, and I tried to fight unconsciousness, knowing that I was no longer safe here, that I shouldn't have come back... could no longer trust...

"I am sorry, Holmes. Holmes?!"


	75. Emotion

_A/N: continuation of the last, and final part of the mini-ark. _

_If anyone wants to write up the argument preceding this, you are very welcome to do so. Just send me a message via my profile, or leave a review, first._

_

* * *

_**Emotion**

"Holmes?" He was unconscious by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, motionless and limp, vulnerable.

He had been walking in the rain, which explained the wetness of his face – or did it? I tried not to think about it, wondering instead whether he had heard my apology. I was grateful that he had come back, despite of what I had said. I should never have suggested that he was in my power, that I could expose him as a lunatic, ruin his career, get him hurled to Bedlam, even, simply because he wanted me to rewrite a beautifully written account...

His bruises were bad, but I was grateful that they had driven him back here, giving me the second chance I hardly deserved after what I had said to him. "I am truly very sorry, Holmes. I would never betray your trust."


	76. Sick

_A/N: Another 221B. After EMPT._

_

* * *

_**Sick  
**

A violent bout of coughing jerked me out of my sleep in the middle of the night. I strained my ears, wondering if I had misheard, or dreamt.

But then I realised where I was – Baker Street. And the memories came rushing back. I felt a new thrill of joy over Holmes's return, and quickly scrambled out of bed.

"Holmes?"

I hurried to his bedroom, where I found the gas lit and my old friend propped up on several pillows, looking miserable. "Dear fellow, what's the matter?"

He smiled and beckoned me over. "I fear the cold I have been carrying around for weeks has caught up with me."

"I am sorry. This ruins our plans, of course."

"London has waited three years for my return, Watson, I dare say it can wait a week longer. Besides, I feel quite comfortable being home."

"I am certainly glad you resurrected. However, you should have told me that you were feeling unwell. I am sure Moran could have been handled by the police."

"And be in the very same room he expected me to be? No, Watson, it was far too dangerous. But it is good you never change, dear fellow, for it allows me to ask an all-important question: would you consider moving back?"


	77. Gallant

**Gallant**

"Holmes? Where are you going?"

Even though Holmes was rather neat concerning his clothing, I had never seen him dressed up. He was still trying to straighten his collar.

"Here, let me."

"Watson, I don't suppose you have a free evening?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. I have completed all the paperwork for this month."

"Well, then maybe you would care to join me. Mycroft tells me there are likely to be many women."

"Where are we going?"

"A ball, Watson. The lady of the house apparently wishes to consult me."


	78. Horror

_A/N: Another peek at the second part of my trilogy. Watson's POV this time._

_

* * *

_**Horror**

Standing on a waterfront was still a cause of utter horror for me, even after all those years that had passed since Reichenbach.

I stood frozen, unable to move and come to Holmes's aid. But if I did not, I would lose him again, and this time, he would not resurrect. The fear held me put, rooting me to the spot, tightening my chest until there was not enough air, and dark spots danced in my vision. I wanted to turn, run, hide, die of guilt.

I never knew whether I imagined Holmes's cry for help, but I did move.


	79. Desecrate

_A/N: During the Hiatus._

_

* * *

_**Desecrate**

"He! What are you doing there?!"

The stranger jumped as the doctor rushed at him, dropping his hat on the grave.

Watson snatched it up ere it damaged the flowers, and tossed it back at him. "I've had enough of your sight-seeing! Yes, he is dead! Clear out!"

"I'm sorry, Doctor," said the man, a raspy Norwegian accent in his voice.

Watson knelt before the grave, and removed the broken twigs. "I assume you do not mind, Holmes, but those tourists really are intolerable. They didn't even know you."

"You do," murmured the Norwegian, standing at the cemetery gate.


	80. Enemy

**Enemy**

Sherlock Holmes – the name was enough to strike fury in his heart. The infernal busybody who called himself a private consulting detective had rendered himself into a serious obstacle.

Not only had Holmes hampered his plans several times, by now he had put them all to a standstill. His minions were afraid, others were locked away.

They had not yet crossed swords. Too bad that obstacles had to be removed or trodden underfoot. Holmes had to disappear from the face of this earth, even if it meant to destroy a brilliant mind that could have been a valuable asset.


	81. Whisper

_A/N: Set during DYIN. _

**Whisper**

"Watson! Watson!"

I straightened, startled by the urgency in Holmes's tired voice. "What is it, old fellow?"

"You're still here, Watson?"

"Of course. You took the key, Holmes."

"The key. Ah, yes, the key. I have it here. You will not take it from me with force."

I sighed. "I won't, but I beg of you, Holmes, give it to me. If you won't let me near you, please, allow me to fetch a doctor, the man you mention, now."

His voice dropped another degree in volume, mirroring his growing exhaustion. "Patience, Watson."


	82. Run

_A/N: After FINA._

_

* * *

_**Run **

There was no time to stop and catch breath, no time to look behind, no time to mourn the bridges he had burned behind him – or the people he had left behind to grieve.

He could only run, try escaping the pursuer who had just lost his master.

He continued even as his strength failed him, ignoring the flaring pain in both his lungs and legs, panting, struggling, running. No longer thinking. Until he finally collapsed, spent, desperate, alone, wanting to continue, but unable to.

After covering so many miles, he was beyond caring, and succumbed to welcoming darkness.


	83. Storm

_A/N: Part of the retirement ark (__#44, #48, #49, #63)_

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_**Storm**

The storm rattled the shutters of the cottage, and surely did considerable damage to his beehives. But his concern was another.

Watson had promised to come, and he would, but Holmes disliked the idea of his Boswell being outside in such a gale. He hoped that, no matter how much he had complained before the doctor, Watson would have the good sense to stay at the station.

Nevertheless, Holmes hovered at the window, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his wheelchair, and was at the door in a matter of seconds as he perceived the figure on the path.


	84. Truth

_A/N: After EMPT._

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_**Truth**

"Why did you not tell me? After some time, after I had written the account? It would have done no harm. You have relied on my discretion before."

"My dear Watson." Holmes obviously delighted in saying that.

"Why?"

"I thought you were safely engaged in your matrimonial duties. If you had rushed to my side, a lot of people would have noticed. It was dangerous, for them as well as for me."

"But Mary died that same year."

He studied his cigarette intently. "Watson, I only received the news a week ago. Mycroft, well..."


	85. Anger

**Anger**

I often found it hard to be angry with Holmes. There was something in his manner that inspired forgiveness, as far as I was concerned. Mycroft, however, was quite another matter.

Usually, he was too lazy to be angry, as Holmes put it, but one day Holmes returned from a meeting with his brother with an ugly gash on the forehead.

"What happened?"

"The wrath of Jupiter, Watson! He hauled a book at me for humming."

"Humming?"

"At the ministers' meeting. I was bored. Mycroft hurled me to his study, yelled, and threw a book at me."

I sighed. "I wonder what possessed him."


	86. Hero

_A/N: Retirement again (__#44, #48, #49, #63, #83)  
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**Hero**

"Watson? You never told me of Afghanistan."

"It's been forty years, old fellow!"

"Quite so. But I am chilled to the bone, and a story of sand and desert would be most welcome."

"Well, I suppose I could..."

"Splendid!"

I placed a blanket around Holmes's shoulders, and resumed my seat. He was not feeling well those cold winter days, and had hardly moved from his armchair, but he listened to my story with undisguised awe.

"Watson," he said after I had finished. "Did anybody ever tell you that you are a real hero?"


	87. Motionless

_A/N: During ILLU._

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_**Motionless**

I had never seen him quite so still. Upon my return to his bedside after a lengthy interview to the press, Holmes had fallen into a morphine-induced slumber, his piped had slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. It was good that I had brought him pipe and tobacco, but no matches, although it worried me greatly that he had felt to weak to attempt getting them himself.

Even as I took his hand in mine, he moaned slightly. Obviously, it was worse than he would admit, at least at any other time but in this motionless sleep.


	88. Wicked

_A/N: Warning for very evil villains._

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_**Wicked**

I had expected many things, and certainly had seen enough of them during my association with Holmes, but not this wicked, fiendish plot.

Holmes was helpless, of course. This crime was without logic, its only prospect being to rid society of all celebrities. There was no system, only death was common, and it was all I could do to watch and wait for Scotland Yard while Holmes himself was the bait for the criminals.

Neither he nor I had expected, however, that he'd be dumped into a large container of water and the lid closed on him. He needed help.


	89. Wound

**Wound**

"Are you all right, Holmes? Are you unhurt?"

"I'm fine." Holmes glared down at the criminal that had tried to attack him with his dagger, and had been sent to oblivion with the bud of my revolver.

"We can just catch our train. The local police will handle it from here."

In the swaying compartment, Holmes settled himself across from myself onto the bench, closing his eyes. He seemed to have fallen asleep in a matter of minutes, but it was only then that I noticed the slick wetness of his glove, discovering the bleeding wound beneath.


	90. Touch

_A/N: Retirement ark (__#44, #48, #49, #63, #83, #86). Mycroft's POV on a scene described in #44.  
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_**Touch**

Sherlock fairly yelped as I shook his hand. He pulled it away quickly, leaving me startled. I scanned his expression carefully, but my eyesight was not as good as it had been, and he had in turn improved his skill of hiding things from me.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

He waved my concern away. "Nothing, do come in. A bee stung me this morning."

Now my little brother was obviously lying, but I let the matter pass. "A bee? Horrible! I assume she has received the capital sentence for her deed?"

"They always do, brother mine."


	91. Slave

_A/N: A take of one case Watson hints at during "The Engineer's Thumb". I suppose the silliness of the prompt made me think of madness._

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_**Slave**

I was utterly horrified by the scene which unfolded before me when Holmes finally arrived at our appointment, belated by two hours.

His hands were shackled, his stride swaying, his back hunched. It was all part of his disguise, of course.

"Holmes?" I brushed my hand carefully against the very real bruise on his jaw; he flinched. I had not imagined what gaining entry to Colonel Warbutton's household did mean!

"I'm sorry, Watson. It is only a few more days, then I will have my case. Needless to say that the hypnotic suggestions have turned Warbutton quite mad."


	92. Trust

**Trust**

I found Holmes in a contemplative mood one evening upon my return from a patient.

He was lounging in his armchair and listening with a languid smile as I told him that I had met a young patient who had stubbornly demanded to see Dr Watson from the stories.

"You are trust-inspiring, Doctor," he said, glancing at the ceiling. Suddenly, an enormous sadness came over his features. "More so than I... Watson?"

"I do trust you, Holmes, explicitly. It is not always easy, but I trust you with my life."

"As do I. Thank you, Watson."


	93. Vicious

_A/N: A take on the boxing match Holmes had with this pricefighter appearing in 3GAR. _

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_**Vicious**

The opponent dealt a blow towards his abdomen, but he evaded it, and they started circling once again. The other was bulky, dangerous, at least twice his weight, but slow.

However, none of Holmes own blows had had any effect as of yet. He had to exhaust the man first.

He took the next blow without complaint, but I could see the ugly bruise forming on his ribcage as he talked to me in the break. "Don't worry, Doctor. The man is not as strong as he seems, though he is certainly a vicious opponent, I grant him that."


	94. Incapacitate

**Incapacitate**

The sounds, the smell, the pain. Blood, screams, shots.

The exact course of events during that fateful battle is still addled; somewhere in my mind lies, maybe, the truth, but I have given up to try uncovering it.

However, one moment still stands clear in my memory: when I awoke finally out of my morphine-induced slumber, shortly before succumbing again to enteric fever. I awoke without pain, but my shoulder would not move as I expected it to, being unnaturally stiff. The wound had healed, or so we all thought, but I soon learned that the stiffness would never disappear.


	95. Weary

**Weary**

The curious investigation of the case I would much later entitle "The Sign of the Four" proved to be most strenuous to my health, even though it provided me with the opportunity to woo and marry. I had hardly slept, rousing Holmes out of his own light slumber with my pacing. Upon our return to Baker Street, I felt exceedingly weary, but dreaded my nightmares.

Holmes utterly surprised me with his consideration, and as I found myself stretched on the sofa, listening to this lullaby for no one but myself, I was sure I would sleep dreamlessly for once.

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_A/N: Only five more to go for this prompt table, therefore: Shall I continue to post the next prompt table in this story, or create a new one?_


	96. Broken

_A/N: Holmes's POV, reflecting on the fire that broke out in Baker Street during FINA, but set after EMPT._

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_**Author's Choice - Broken**

I would make light of it later, tell Watson that no great damage had been done... which was, in parts, true.

But to be quite frank, the window was not the only thing that broke in the fire consuming our curtains.

I had not been back in our rooms then, but I freely admit that I was devastated when Mycroft presented me three years later with a broken violin that was beyond repair.

It was only Watson's welcoming gift that lifted my mood: a shiny new violin, paid no doubt with the money he had earned for selling his practise.


	97. Flush

_A/N: Before REIG._

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_**Author's Choice – Flush**

The fresh round of coughing brought me to his side. "Holmes?"

"Hm?"

"I would suggest a rest in the country."

"I'm fine here."

"No, you're not, and enthusiastic people keep banging at our door to offer their congratulations. We could heat the fire with those telegrams for months!"

"Do so. They mean nothing to me."

I handed him a cold cloth for his flushed face.

"I don't want any more fussing from anyone. You are quite enough."

"Without me, you would feel worse than you do now. Besides, it is a bachelor household."


	98. Poison

**Author's Choice - Poison**

Any liquid in these flasks he kept in his chemical cabinet could kill, easily. He handled the probes with extreme care, for he knew what they contained by colour, viscosity and odour. After moving to his new lodgings, it did not for an instant occur to him that there was a danger involved in keeping them.

However, when he returned home one day to find a curious doctor examining those very phials, oblivious to their deathly content, he decided to invent a labelling system for his chemicals. He had no desire whatsoever to become a murderer, not even by accident.


	99. Cry

_A/N: Celine is an OC I created for the second part of my trilogy I have hinted at before. She is a relative to Holmes's mother, and looked after the Holmes brothers when they were children. _

_Sadly, I don't speak French, I tried to piece the words together with the help of the internet, so if you spot any mistake and are fit to help, please do!_

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_**Author's Choice - Cry**

"Sherlock?" Celine knocked at the door of the attic. She knew she would find young Sherlock there. "_Mon chérie, ouvre la porte. J'apporte ton violon._"

"Celine?" Sherlock sounded younger than he was, his voice high with tears.

"_Oui._"

The door was unlocked and opened, revealing a much dishevelled boy.

"_Qu'est-ce qui s'est donc passé_?"

"Papa hit me." Sherlock turned on his heels and walked over to the window, the violin already tucked under his chin. Celine marvelled at his courage; he was indeed a brilliant boy, with such a tender heart. She hoped he would find someone to support him when she was no longer there.


	100. End

_A/N: And the final one of this prompt table, a 221B. _

_I will continue posting drabbles from my own prompttable in a new story, called Spruce and Willow.  
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_**Author's Choice – End  
**

"So that is it?"

"It would seem so." Holmes picked up his hat and cane.

After the death of Mrs Hudson, the decision had been a mutual one. Neither of us wished to remain, and Holmes had decided that now was as good as any time to put an end to all cases.

I was to remain in London, but he had purchased a cottage in the Sussex Downs.

"I assume bees will be quite a change."

"I hope you will come down sometimes."

We went out of the sitting room to collect Holmes's luggage. Most of his possessions had already gone to Sussex, what was left fit into a small bag.

"Of course, Holmes."

"Splendid. You promise?"

"Upon my life, I do."

He threw a wistful look into our now-barren rooms, then glanced at his watch. "I have to go if I wish to catch my train."

"Yes. Do go."

He took my hand briefly and descended the seventeen stairs for the last time, closing the front door firmly behind him.

I rushed back into our former sitting room to watch his familiar figure strolling down the street. He waved his cane as if to greet me, knowing I was there, but his stride was firm. He did not look back.


End file.
